


O.C.D. for Obsessive Compulsive Duet

by MrShadow



Series: Two against the world [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Slight dark! Sherlock, a little dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24371263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrShadow/pseuds/MrShadow
Summary: It must be the O.C.D. too, the uncanny impulse for him to wreck everything around Mycroft, just like the other man want to quieten everything around him.And Sherlock had not realised it until he bit his brother when woke up from a dream.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Series: Two against the world [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1451278
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	O.C.D. for Obsessive Compulsive Duet

**Author's Note:**

> Be hold! A fic no more than toddler’s gabbling. Close it before it pains you.

Mycroft is doing _that_ again. Sherlock notes, with some old unfathomable irritation.

His brother should not be doing _that_ , not here, not now. Sherlock thinks, hands slightly shaking. He cannot tell whether it is triggered by anger or lust.

Maybe both. How could he know? He is too confused to discern the difference when things concerning Mycroft. And as his _dear_ brother said, ‘Hysterical emotions are all but vestige of brutality long before the dawn of civilisation.’ After which, a pregnant pause, and words continued, more jovially if one could spot the tiny distinction, ‘However, pray not forget that even this so-called civilisation is merely a façade, which people acquire to justify themselves; thus, no more than an illusion designed by self-deceiving brains.’

How eloquent. Sherlock snorts inwardly, not averting his gaze from Mycroft’s fingers. Each of them is of fine porcelain, delicate and impeccable, translucent with a sense of obscene. There must be a curse, the temptation of Salome, rebelling his will and freezing eye movement. They should be banned from the public, Sherlock thinks in a slightly dark mood, especially when ‘fiddling’ with ties.

Maybe ‘fiddling’ is too much and ‘adjusting’ is the right word. It does not matter. To him, it is an obvious symptom of O.C.D. which, for some curious reasons, never admitted by his brother’s ‘ever-so-brilliant’ brain. Wonderful, isn’t it? Something he knows but Mycroft not. He should be pleased, be exhilarated, and be satisfied by this very idea; instead, he is vexed, frustrated, and even angered. And once again, he is urged by the mysterious forces that has been prevailing his whole life, pushing him like merciless winds, to sweep away everything around, as if he were still that innocent nine-year-old boy, welcoming his big brother in his own unconventional way.

_He was nine and he was wild._

_There was his sixteen-year-old brother, dressing in perfect three-piece suit, just back from school; and there was him, in muddled pyjamas, full of suspicious stains left by his latest experiment. He observed and felt something wrong. Not having been able to figure out what by his young and still chaotic mind, he followed his instinct, dashing into Mycroft’s arms like chemicals ejected from a violent reaction._

_In merely a second, tie loosened, cloth wrinkled, and skin chafed. There must have been a tiny sound of discomfort too, from Mycroft, who was extremely sensitive to pain---and still is. Nevertheless, those arms, those arms of his brother, no longer soft with fat, having been surrounding him habitually in a protective way, did not withdraw._

_‘You really should learn how to greet people properly.’_

_He heard his brother’s voice, aloft and aloof. He grimaced, suddenly realising he could not find what he wanted by staying, no matter how warm and comfortable those arms made him._

_‘I don’t greet people,’ He said and ran away, with a newly appearing emotion too strong to suppress. He ran and ran, away but not far away---with his brother in the house, how far could he go? After just a few minutes, he went back, like he always did, and stealthily approached Mycroft’s bedroom. The door was closed, but there was a tiny crack. He looked through it and observed._

_Like he had imagined, his brother was in front of the dressing mirror, preening himself out of the mess he had caused. It was like performing a sacred ritual, well ordered and organised, enchanting him to look on: those long and warm fingers first took off the jacket and second the waistcoat---Mycroft had lost weight again, unfortunately; then they patiently smoothed every single crease on the cloth and when finished, laid both garments on the top of an armchair back; there was only a striped tie and a white shirt left, which, under the sunlight, painted his brother in a halo of strange tenderness, the tenderness he had only seen on two occasions---when he, very rarely, was able to see through the other man or when, at night, Mycroft was sleeping; before his mind could stray further, Mycroft neatly tucked the shirt into his trousers and all tender images disappeared all of sudden; light fingers then fluently unfastened the loose tie and elegantly tied it into a perfect Windsor knot; with this action, the end came---the waistcoat and the jacket were put on in a reverse order to the beginning, becoming a full circle._

_His brother was back to the impeccable self once again and oddly appeared to be pleased---of course, if one could penetrate the thick disguise of vexation and catch the ephemeral appearance of real emotion. He was amazed at this fact: Mycroft being secretly delighted by tidying up a mess. It is a trivial matter, but in which he too was able to find calm and peace, as if those fingers of his brother, by smoothing the creases of garments, also levelled the ridges of his turmoil. He was no longer troubled and he was relaxed. He memorised that exact moment and sealed it deep into his primitive palace._

Sherlock remembers that he spent all the rest of his childhood later playing a character who deliberately disarrayed things in the presence of his brother, and patiently waited for the other man to put order back. Every time, he stayed somewhere near and observed Mycroft’s movements; every time, he obtained an interlude of equilibrium and contentment after. But the whole thing, like most things in his life, did not last long.

It was an inevitable separation, followed by a disastrous reunion.

_He was eighteen and he was much wilder; his age was doubled, but his wildness exponentiated._

_There was him in delirium, induced by the White Demon, waving his arms aggressively and raving hatefully; and there was his brother, standing in absolute silence, a yard away, ever so controlled and composed._

_It must have been a dramatic scene to watch, he mocked inside, a shouting mad man in ragged cloth against a motionless_ _wax figure in elegant suit. What an artful design! Think of the difference, the disparity, and the divergence; and all the other words begin with ‘di’, oozing conflict and opposition. Who would link them with the warm and harmonic word of ‘brothers’ ever again?_

_A strong feeling of déjà vu accompanied this thought, with the same anger, and the same sense of distortion. He stilled and seized them. He should have poked and dissected them too, but he was too high to do it. He noticed, suddenly, there was someone else in the room. He turned and saw, in surprise, himself._

_It was a much younger version, he recognised, still in stained pyjamas, staring at him curiously, as if he were the most bizarre creature in the world. He stared back and watched this child hiding behind Mycroft, like a poor kicked puppy. This was so wrong, he almost laughed at the absurdity; he had never hidden behind Mycroft in any occasion, not even in his revolting ‘happy’ dreams from the early age, where he and Mycroft had been so much closer than in reality._

_He closed his eyes, for a moment, and breathed deeply. By this action, he was able to forge a calm appearance and turned all the external blaze into an internal fury._

_‘You should stand with me, not him,’ he bellowed in his mind, which his younger self must have heard. But the child did not even slightly flinch, remaining in the position and smugly imitating Mycroft’s stillness. He felt so betrayed, by himself and by the whole world. But it did not matter. He hated them all._

_At this exact moment, maybe due to his immobility outside,_ His Highness _finally decided to open the mouth and speak._

_‘Sherlock…’_

_A voice, low and soft, devoid of all emotions, almost drowned in the buzzing of anger in his ears._

_‘Don’t SHERLOCK me!’ He hissed._

_How dare Mycroft ‘Sherlock’ him in that tone? as if he had not been a grown man, as if they had not been separated for years, as if the long and uncomfortable silence after Mycroft’s sudden appearance had not happened. How long was it anyway? five minutes, ten minutes, or maybe barely one minute? His timer was a bit ‘off’, but Mycroft apparently needed some time to recognise him._

_Felt like meeting a stranger, didn't it?_

_He looked Mycroft in the eye, with all the iciness, all the hatred, and all the fury he could convey. And in return, he received something he had never thought Mycroft was capable of, disappointment and devastation. Was the world going to explode in a few minutes? Or did he, by total coincidence, inject himself with a super virus which can annihilate the whole human population? It was just a dose of seven percentage solution, wasn't it?_

_‘You are addicted.’_

_He heard Mycroft murmured and sensed an ounce of incredibility in it, or maybe it was a delusion._

_‘Stating the obvious now, Mycroft? Congrats, huge improvement in ordinary people’s diplomacy.’_

_‘Why are you doing this?’_

_Oh, this time, there was indeed the incredibility. Good question. Why did anybody do anything? He snorted._

_‘Can’t you deduce? Oh, of course, it’s been a long time. Short of information. But the answer is so simple, brother dear: for fun, just for fun.’_

_He waved his arms, for what purpose he did not known. He had not intended to do that either, he lost control, of his body and of his mind. Brilliant. The efficacy of cocaine._

_‘This is too much, Sherlock. You must go home with me.’_

_He heard Mycroft spoke, louder, with a sense of compulsion; he saw the other man even advanced one step further, towards him, like intimidation. But he was not a person who could be easily intimidated, and Mycroft was not intimidating. He scoped Mycroft up and down, all he could see was weak muscles and frailty. His brother was still the brainy one, just like before._

_‘This is too much, Sherlock. You must go home with me,’ he mimicked in a funny voice and also advanced a step further, which left only one step in between, the dilemma of two pawns confronting on board---even in this distance, he could feel the other man’s breath, see the other man’s iris, and almost impossible, hear the other man’s heartbeat, slow but firm, ‘You should write me, like before. Or is it something to do with your hands? Paperwork crippled them, perhaps? Otherwise, why bother? You know this place is too shabby to accommodate someone like you.’_

_By the last sentence, he made the last step. Before he could finish the words, he held out his hands and adjusted Mycroft’s tie. From the result, it was more like sabotage than adjustment, but at least he tried._

_His hands stayed, not leaving the fine and smooth cloth. He and Mycroft, almost the same height, became so close and ‘attached’. He saw the stiffness of Mycroft’s body: the other man must have wished for recession, from the position too treacherous to his dignity. But something, something unknown to him, stopped Mycroft and the body suddenly relaxed, like a surrender._

_This was a dangerous sign._

_‘Sherlock…’Mycroft started._

_‘Don’t. I don’t want to hear anything after Sherlock that comes from your month,’ he interrupted in a quick and defensive way, having a feeling of foreboding that Mycroft’s saying would sail them both to a perilous area. Perhaps a fact he did not know, or a fact which he had not realised he was hiding from._

_‘Sorry.’_

_Came the soft voice anyway._

_‘What?’_

_He was stupefied by the simple word, for this was not something he had expected and thus more dangerous. He studied Mycroft’s eyes, searching for anything artificial, anything delusive, and anything deceitful, yet there was none, only sorrow, pure and simple, like the most cherished had been shattered, the long committed died, and the rosy dreamed faded._

_It must have been performance. Mycroft was not allowed to have emotions._

_‘I’m sorry, Sherlock.’_

_He heard the other man repeated, in full sentence, with his name addressed, and all he could respond was another ‘what’ with a ‘for’ inserted before. It only took the other man one sentence to make him a toddler who barely know other words. Clever move, didn’t it?_

_‘I didn’t know.’_

_An unfinished sentence. But he could see the rest from Mycroft’s eyes, in the greyness of which crystallised sympathy and remorse; Mycroft was thinking that Sherlock cared, particularly, about him, and, as a human being so oblivious to emotions, repenting for not having perceived it._

_Such a self-important hypocrite! He was enraged by this fallacy, so violently that it burnt. No, he could not bear it; even the idea that they were standing on the same floor and breathing the same air repulsed him; he needed space; he wanted Mycroft gone. Before he could figure out a plan, his hand moved itself, holding the tie tight and pulled it heftily towards him._

_Their body crushed. A little sound of pain escaped from Mycroft, and ‘euphonious’ he cried in his mind._

_His blood was boiling, no longer by the fury and hatred, but by the power and control, especially when they were over Mycroft, and he was restlessly compelled to do more. He kept Mycroft steadily in his arms, seemed like an embrace, but cold and dangerous, for he tightened the knot._

_‘I do not care. And never did,’ he put his mouth to the earlobe of Mycroft and whispered venomously, word by word; then more quickly, ‘Now, brother dear, piss off and never show yourself again.’_

_He enjoyed it a lot, so invincible and formidable, but all were illusions. A soft cough startled him, and he abruptly loosened his grip and stepped back, like stung by a wasp. He saw the other man’s deep breath, the indiscernible shivers, and the pinkness on face. With sanity recovered and mind cleared, he started to feel awful and a little, just a little, scared. He wanted to say something, but there were none, so he turned away._

He could have strangled Mycroft, _he thought_ _bewilderedly._

_Maybe part of him did want that, but… Before he could figure out the rest, his thought was cut by the sound of footsteps, at a slow pace, lower and lower, moving away from him. He got what he wanted: Mycroft was leaving. But where did this sudden sense of loss come from? He stood there, without any motion, until he could feel the other man no more._

_He turned and found a room so empty that the sound of footsteps still echoing. His eyes swept everywhere, for traces left by the other man, which was none, as if Mycroft had never been there. He was, once again, left alone. And the reason why he had been alone before Mycroft’s intrusion struck him: he had been deserted by his ‘pals’, because no one dared to approach him when he was high._

_He just succeed in pushing another away, this time, it was Mycroft, not ordinary people. Which was nothing special, wasn't it? And he was alone, but not lonely, wasn't he?_

_‘I didn't know…’_

_This sentence inappropriately jumped into his mind, in Mycroft’s voice, leading to his eyes fixing on the younger self, who, being ignored for a long time, had been staring at him in a hostile way ever since he ‘attacked’ his dear brother._

_‘You did not care, did you?’ he murmured unconsciously._

_There was no reply, only silence and emptiness. He closed his eyes, feeling relieved and disorientated simultaneously. But these sensations could not last, for there was an answer given suddenly, in the most familiar and most foreign voice_

_‘You did care.’_

_Here came the reply waited for and afraid of and here came the truth haunting and haunted. He opened his eyes and found in front of himself, another Sherlock, sixteen-year-old, dressed in a three-piece suit apparently too large for him, displaying a sly smile. It was a Sherlock that had never existed but tried to._

_Yes, he remembered, he had tried to be Mycroft once; and it ended with an agonising realisation that he could never be, for even in identical clothes they were so much different: they were so much different when they should have been the closest; they were so much different when they should have shared the same mind; they were so much different when they should have become_ one _and thus become_ complete _. But in reality, even in identical clothes, they were not alike._

_There must have been something wrong, with them or with this world, and he was the only one who noticed, so he hated them all and fought them all. Yes, he was not lonely, he was fighting, and Mycroft, in essence, was not relevant, for the other man was just a method for him to discern the wrongness of the world; the most important thing was the fight, always the fight. He found an explanation hastily and clung to it, but deep down his subconscious, he knew this was not right either._

_‘You did care.’ his young duplicate so irritatingly repeated._

_‘Shut up!’ he shouted, feeling his rage reared its head again, but of course his sixteen-year-old self would not obey. After another repetition, he exploded and carelessly unleashed all his fury to the surroundings. After all, there was only so much damage he could do in such a shabby room._

_So, glasses shattered, blanket teared, and chairs one maimed, one completely broken. He almost destroyed all he could and was only stopped by the dizziness caused by violent movements; He had not eaten properly for a while._

_Calmed, just a little, he threw himself onto the time-worn mattress that was put directly on the dusty floor and curled into a ball. He had no time to check his younger selves, who fell into total silence, for he did not feel well: cold and warm, excited and exhausted, all at the same time. And there was a veil, made of fog and smoke, mantling his thought and making all things seemed vague and distant. He closed his eyes, trying to recover._

_Times passed, for how long he did not know. He felt suddenly, a man was sinking in the mattress next to him and carefully put something beside his head; from the weight and the sound, it was water and food._

_The man was of course the valiant Mycroft, the last person left in this world who dare to come back to his lair after the ugly treatment. Sherlock knew it without opening eyes and deducing, for he was too familiar with the other man, and even after years of parting, his brain was still storing all the data about Mycroft, not one of them being lost. But he had not expected Mycroft’s return, so maybe he did not know his brother that well after all._

_A hand touched his forehead so briefly that he barely had time to feel its softness and warmness; he missed that sensation ever after the skin had parted, but he would never admit it when his mind was clear. A silky handkerchief moped away his sweat, with the other man’s heat, cologne, and body scent; by this simple action, he was much better and the shiver, which he had not realised, ceased._

_He, however, did not open his eyes, because he did not want to, not because he could not face it._

_‘Will you go home with me, Sherlock?’_

_He heard Mycroft ask, once more, with all the tenderness he could master, which was not much. He knew this was the last time, the last chance for him to go with his brother._

_He did not reply at once, struggling or ignoring, or both. He gave his answer after a silence so long that it almost mirrored the one when Mycroft first appeared. It was a simple ‘no’, barely audible, also with all the tenderness he could master, which was not much either. He knew this was a bad choice, but he could not leave, not now; Mycroft would understand, not fully, for even he himself had not grasped the whole picture, but just part of it would be enough._

_There was a sigh, understanding and understood, as he had expected, and the other man was leaving. He nearly opened his eyes, but restrained himself eventually; he shivered once more and watched with ears intently, capturing every sound, no matter how small it was: the bottom of shoes contacted with wood, towards a direction away from him, cloth rustled against skin, an object lifted from the floor? No, impossible. Was Mycroft…?_

_He opened his eyes and there it was, Mycroft, his immaculate brother, tidying the messy room with his bare hands. Sherlock was dazed: the world was suddenly twisted by a swirl of time, bringing him back to young age, as if all the things had happened were solely an old childish play. Yet the whole thing was so incongruous; to any of them, it was not a game; and those fingers, those long and pale fingers of his brother, was blemished by dirt and dust. The latter was such a trivial and irrelevant detail but it almost made him scream, in intense and indeterminable emotion. He conflicted with himself and was split in two: Sherlock A wanted Mycroft stop, Sherlock B did not; of course Sherlock B won in the end, for he was enchanted, once again, by the spell from his past and he just had to watch, in his silent and secret way._

_Somehow, it was still effective: piece by piece Mycroft cleared the debris, calmer and calmer he was able to become. But this sense of calmness, not happiness, not contentment, superficial and fragile, was all he could get. There was no secret pleasure in his brother’s heart; there was no equilibrium in his mind; and he denied all the causality in between._

_He kept watching, unblinkingly, until his eyes were physiologically teary. He closed them and incorporated everything into his mind palace._

Sherlock remembers they said goodbye when they parted, like ordinary people, polite and civil. After that, he quitted cocaine cold turkey. Of course, Mycroft bothered him many times during the withdrawal and every time was meticulously predicted and calculated to make sure that he was always in his worst symptoms. Maybe the other man did not care whether he was rehabilitated or not---Mycroft purely enjoyed his suffering. This was a very tempting idea, but he knew it was not true.

They were together, experienced anger, hurt, and conflicts of all possibilities, but also peace, empathy, and reconciliation of all kinds. The day when he finally broke the shackle of his addiction was the day they went on their diverged path again---they still could not bear each other’s presence for long and he was listening to his brother’s fussy sarcasm, wondering why.

But there were changes in this divergence as well: Mycroft became his archenemy in real world, for he hated the other man more than before; while Mycroft also became the judge in his mind palace, for the reason he did not want to know.

Sherlock retreats from his memories and looks Mycroft in the eye, who is standing only three yards away, with an unfathomable smile, feeling so close and so distant at the same time. It makes him envy: how could the other man be oblivious to all the thoughts? Isn’t there any flashbacks of memories in his mind too? Why could he still be calm and indifferent like nothing being critical? It also makes him angry: how could Mycroft just stand there, as straight as a ramrod, doing nothing? Isn’t he who always claims to be the smarter one? But see what he did, indulging his O.C.D., making a proper joke, and speaking out his last request. Did he really accept all these as his final fate?

No, this is not right. Mycroft should be thinking, with every brain cell, to conceive a master plan and get them all out of this dead end, safe and sound; but he just smiles, serenely and sadly.

Sherlock’s hand is shaking, more visible, not from anger, not from lust; there was a gun in it, pointing at Mycroft; a trigger need to be pulled and he cannot.

He cannot and there is no other way out: John or Mycroft, he must choose. Family business, John is out of the question, so new choices emerges: a world without Mycroft or the death of his own. He could not, he cannot, he chooses the latter.

Mycroft must see it from his eyes and decided to intervene. Distance between them is closed, the expensive fabric of suit touches the muzzle, and the gun was almost dropped by a startled Sherlock but immediately steadied by another pair of hands. Warm and soft, these hands are nothing like the man they belong to. They caressed his hair, tied his ties, embraced him, protected him, never rejected him, never pushed him away; they also quietened him, agitated him, pleased him, annoyed him; they are long and pale, alluring him to kiss and tempting him to break.

They are squeezing his finger against the hard mental. No. He looks the cold grey eyes desperately and screams inside, but he is too rigid to move.

‘Sorry for the mess.’ he senses this sentence from his brother’s expression and there it was, less than one millisecond.

BANG.

Sherlock opens his eyes with a start, mind still buzzing with the deafening noise of gun. His ears are buzzing too, which is strange. He sit up abruptly and finds a familiar umbrella on the floor, trembling.

An umbrella, he stares, just dropped, by a loosed hand.

‘Sorry to wake you. Accidentally fall asleep.’

He heard Mycroft’s voice, tired and croaky, replacing the ringing in his ears. He cast his eyes over his brother, who is sitting in an armchair beside the bed, exhausted, but still immaculate in his suit. How long has he been here? Two days.

Only now comes the realisation: Mycroft is alive; it was a dream. But Sherlock is not relived, not even an iota. Emerging in his mind, it is the violent impulse once again, pushing and dragging, urging him to do something, anything.

He tumbles out of the bed, rushes towards Mycroft, and nearly collapses into the other man. Between them, only ten inches left.

‘Sherlock…’

Before Mycroft could finish, he drags the other man’s tie, towards his right side, closing the final ten inches and bites his brother’s neck, so hard that he tastes blood.

‘Sherlock!’ a cry of pain.

He then lets the tie go, steps back, and inspects his work: a mark of red, loosened tie, wrinkled cloth, and chafed skin. Result: Mycroft is properly messed and Sherlock is quietened, satisfied, and pleased.

It is just like every time he put the other man’s documents in disarray or slant the knocker on purpose. But this time, he finally figures out why: he need Mycroft to be messy, thus to become closer; if he can never be Mycroft, then let the other man be him.

He realised suddenly, this is also an O.C.D., aiming for Mycroft only. The other man must have noticed this long ago, for there was no real anger or hurt on his expression, almost every time, except for the one when Sherlock went too far by the influence of drugs.

Mycroft played along. How could this escape his notice before?

‘After all these years, still no improvement for your social skill?’ Mycroft said, and tilts his head to the side without the wound.

‘Never,’ he replied icily but smiled a shark smile inside.

Let them play on, their secret little game, their obsessive compulsive duet, harmonious and dissonant, loving and hating.

Let them play on forever.

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. This is my first English fic and without Beta, so there must be lots of grammar mistakes. Sorry about this and also sorry about the messy plot. Somehow it started to run itself and do not slightly care about the title.   
> I love the love-hate dynamics between the Holmes brothers. They love each other because they are so similar but they also hate each other because they are similar and different at the same time. The hate between them is pure, but the love is a mixture and very difficult to tell. I tried my best to convey all these in my fic, but I failed. Maybe I can do better next time.


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